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ryn Aug 2023
There’s no respite
from this spectre
from memories dead.

There’ll be more moons
before vigil relinquishes
its stead.
since the first words fell from the darkness
like a feather in the night
I have entered these pitch black corners
where they wait for me
my curiosity has always outweighed my fear
but these words have been greatly tested of late
a new veil has been lifted
a new test has presented itself
my name spoken
as the spectre hovered above
objects move shortly thereafter
the words 'We get you' from a female
whose voice I have heard before
cuts the silence and tickles my spine

they are not one or two
but many souls
many voices
in a room of great size
they drift in and out
allow me in
and I will tell you
they are truly frightening in their clarity

I have taken some time away
but I am being drawn back
for the flame of curiosity cannot be snuffed
I will enter again
my fear quelled
my desire to know more
burning within
my latest experiences have reached a level that has given me pause
AditiKo May 2020
The ornate rosewood clock
Chimed 12 midnight;
Tick tock tick tock...
Echoed back lavish papered walls.

Only the soft candlelight
Bore witness to the scarlet stained walls;

The anguished muffled cry
Drowned by the midnight chime.

It knew when to strike.

At midnight.
The moon shines over some blood every night.

I'm usually not this creepy kay.
Jillian Jesser Oct 2018
Sunday morning,
and the sun is peaking through the blinds
after a long sleepless night.

The monster that hung over my head all night
is sticking around for the light, it seems,
and it is scaring my Pothos'.

As they wilt,
I am changing the song that's playing,
It's too haunting, too obvious.

An old friend, this specter has become.
I laugh as he spills my coffee.
Sally A Bayan Mar 2018
.......a parade of thoughts,
crowd its tip......sad...sweet,
hopeful...or prohibited,thoughts after the other,
like white circled smokes from a spectre,
smoking....hiding, behind the curtain,
triggered by a song, a verse, or somethin' a photo, a voice...a memory...

when they come to haunt...and taunt
..... i just bow my head,
and let my  pen stand *****
or lean inside my palm,
allow it to make curves, loops and  
lines, to cross out untimely thoughts
on white blank pages...
pen struggles with me--whether or not, to share
my likes, dislikes, my disgust, fears, my despair...
my endless questions are frozen...wintered
within...i wonder, will they remain unuttered?
....the answers, as before, are uncertain... discontent, oh, so apparent...
.....when i hold my when my soul
breathes and journeys...i forget all,
....hunger pangs do not enter my mind troubled self....and the peaceful me
....join forces....their combined energy
flow freely, inside my inner streams...
...i sit tall when they bring out the best in me,
...wonder if i could bring back worst moments,
......and correct the wrong in them...but,
who's to say what is right? what is wrong?

when i hold my pen, i realize its might,
its omnipotent power....its written bold words,
exclamations, lines, commas, dots and dashes,
can incite, or douse strong actions and feelings
it softens the sharp edges of anger and pain
it can puncture deeper...better than a sword,
it can heal...soothe wounds and  slashes
.................inflicted by other pens

........when i hold my pen,
i let it speak for me...time and again...


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
March 21, 2018
Journey of Days Nov 2017
felt you
ooze in
heard your soul
scratching and jangling
as it shuffled in
behind me
inserting yourself
into the nothing left between me and the door
and you just hover
a spectre
seen but unseen
felt your form
flick of hair
the false nails
and cigarettes barely disguised with gum
with bag stylishly slung
I don’t need to see you
to know you are there
inserting yourself
into the nothing left between me and the door
and you just hover

you know those real life spectres that hover
seen but unseen
you know they are there….hover
Joshua Scott Dec 2016
I saw a ghost in my room
As the sun rose
He drifted near as I sat up in bed
I could see him in the mirror
Mocking me
Whispering lies
Or truths I refused to hear
I told him he died long ago
between forgotten memories
And pointless feelings
And he said "No, I'm just sleeping. For a while longer still."
And he faded away
Into the morning air
What have I done?

A calamity has befallen me.

My heart lies impaled by a blade of my own design, beating in agony.

Across from me I see her, huddled over the blade, her hands crimson from its edge.

Her tears descend upon my heart like broken stars, burning into the flesh, down to its very core.

What have I done?

Amid her shrieks of pain, I speak words of remorse.

Amid her words of sorrow, I try to mend what has been broken.

But I have exhausted myself. I haven't the strength to lift my heart off of the blade.

In the midst of my struggle, I see a figure, one who I believe at first to be the Solitude, come to torment me with my failures.

But it does not speak.

Where the Solitude mocks me, the figure remains silent.

Where the Solitude glares harshly into my soul, the figure merely gazes.

It does not show its face, but it breeds a sense of familiarity.

A Spectre, in my own image.

With ease, it lifts my heart from the blade, but with its touch, the heart turns black.

It is devoid of any other hue, engulfing the cracks and scars that plagued its surface, it is unified by darkness.

It is beyond recognition.

The Spectre extends the beating void to me, in silent offering.

But I refuse.

I shall not allow myself to succumb to the cold absence it will bring.

I would rather endure, if only barely.

Yet, as I turn away, I see her. The one who once held my affection.

The one who tore down my fortress. The one who showed my future in her eyes. The one who left laughter and serenity in her wake.

With another.

Turning back, I take the creation of the Spectre, without hesitation.

As it takes its place, I hear the echoes of all the tender words she once spoke to me, yet they carry a harsh timbre.

I feel the fire of passion I once carried, yet it creates only ice.

I see the memories once cherished, but they have become pale and morbid.

"What is this feeling?" I ask the Spectre.

I cannot see its lips, but I know it smiles at the inquiry, before uttering a single word:

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